Lone Wolf

by Kathryn Lasky

  “Why? Why have I never seen this before?” He gasped. His marrow boiled. Heep murdered that pup!

  Every time Faolan had come to retrieve bones, he had been staring at the evidence, yet never realized it! Now dozens of nicks seemed to storm to the surface of the bone, as if to mock him in his blindness.

  Taking as many of the tiny bones in his mouth as he could, Faolan set off from his encampment at attack speed. He knew he could keep up this pace all the way back, for his anger fueled him. Hillocks flew by. He leaped streams he had once swum. A grove of birches flashed past him in a white blur. The clouds overhead, pushed by a strong west wind, were slow as sap in comparison to the silver streak that was Faolan running with love and hatred in his heart. Love for the pup. Love for what it never had a chance to be. And a deep abhorrence for the absolute vileness of Heep. The pup’s story was about to end.

  When Faolan was less than a league away from the encampment, he was caught by surprise by a skreeleen’s howl. “The gnaw wolf Faolan approaches!” Next came a high-pitched shrilling from scores of wolves. He could catch threads of words—“Dim World…vyrrwolf…demon wolf…witch…murderer!”

  Just then, two large wolves swept down on either side of him. One bit him viciously on his hip. Other wolves pulled the attacking wolf off. But within seconds, more wolves were on top of Faolan, crushing him so he could not speak.

  A mass of wolves parted as if to make way. “Here he comes. Here he comes.”

  Who is coming? Faolan thought. What is happening? But the air was being squeezed out of him and he couldn’t lift his eyes to see.

  “Most humbly I submit that this indeed is the murderer of the malcadh and I will again, with great humility since I am but a lowly gnaw wolf—a tailless gnaw wolf—submit the evidence to the raghnaid.”

  Raghnaid? Murderer? Evidence? Faolan listened to these oily words in terror. What evidence could Heep possibly have? Faolan had brought the evidence. It had spilled from his mouth when the wolves ambushed him.

  Adair stepped forward and ordered the wolves off so Faolan could stand. “Faolan, you are to be brought to the gadderheal, where the raghnaid has assembled. You are to be charged with murder!”

  “Murder?”

  “The murder of a malcadh.”

  “That’s impossible! NO!”

  Gwynneth’s words came back to him. They might try to blame you…. They are looking for reasons for you to fail. And now it was all happening.

  “Let the tearing begin!” A high-pitched howl went up.

  “Not yet. Not yet! Wait for the judgment of the raghnaid!” someone barked.

  Two more wolves appeared and pressed in on either side of Faolan. He felt himself carried along by a surge of flanking wolves.

  “My bones! My bones!” he shouted.

  “What bones?” Adair asked.

  “The ones I dropped. They are MY evidence.” He thought he caught a glimpse of Adair picking up the little pup’s bones. But he could not be sure.

  Those bones were his only hope.

  When they entered the encampment, the silence was thick. Faolan was escorted immediately to the gadderheal. The path was choked with onlookers, and two wolves trotted ahead briskly and barked to clear the way. Faolan spotted Mhairie and Dearlea, weeping silently. He dared not catch their eyes. How had all this come about? He was in a daze as he was brought before Liam, son of Duncan MacDuncan. At Liam’s side was Cathmor, looking deeply angry. She nudged her son. “Get on with it.”

  “Faolan, gnaw wolf of the MacDuncan clan, for the second time in less than a year, you have been brought before the raghnaid to answer for the accusations inscribed on a gnaw-bone.”

  “Wait!” He looked around frantically for Adair. “Bring the bones that I carried!”

  Adair came forward and dropped the small pile. Faolan felt a momentary relief as he looked down at the tiny fragments of white. “I ask you, my lord chieftain, to look, just look down at my feet. I brought you the bones of the malcadh as evidence of her murder. Murder by none other than Heep, gnaw wolf of the River Pack.”

  “What is this?” Adair said. “Why would the murderer bring evidence of his own crime?”

  “Because it’s not MY crime. It’s Heep who murdered this malcadh.”

  “But it is Heep who has given us the evidence.”

  “WHAT EVIDENCE?” Faolan roared. Two large wolves leaped on him from behind, lashing him about by his tail so that he rolled onto his back. He looked up at the wolves who stared down at him. His eyes were wild.

  I must speak to them calmly. I must show some sense, exactly as Duncan MacDuncan told me.

  “Let him rise,” the chieftain said. Faolan staggered to his feet. The chieftain looked at him fiercely. “It is Heep who gnawed the story bone that told of…” Liam MacDuncan’s voice dwindled off as his eyes wandered to the confusing pile of tiny bones.

  “That’s exactly what it is—a story, lies, all of it!” Faolan barked out sharply. He shoved his ears forward and held his tail straight out and rigid, in a stance of aggression as far from submission as a wolf could get. By Lupus, if he was going down, he was not going down with his tail between his legs! A sergeant at arms for the raghnaid came up and body-slammed Faolan so that he fell over completely. But he rose up again.

  “Did Heep bring you the bones of the malcadh? No! Because that is where the real story is carved, carved by Heep! Right here.”

  Liam MacDuncan stepped closer to Faolan and glared. “Heep brought us a bone that he will submit to the raghnaid momentarily—a bone carved by yourself!”

  Impossible! But then, Faolan remembered the bone he had begun to carve and that had disappeared. Heep! Heep had followed him to the ridge. And the partially carved bone was his damning evidence.

  Liam MacDuncan turned his head. “Come forth, Heep, and read the story bone you have carved that details the murder of the malcadh.” Heep moved forward haltingly—bone in mouth, his eyes sliding nervously to one side as he tried to avoid Faolan’s gaze, which bore into him, straight to his marrow.

  “On a day in the early crescent of the first snow moon, I was heading toward the range of hills, looking for bones in the runoff. It is a good place to find gnawing bones, of which there had been few near the river since its flooding during the previous moons.”

  What a bunch of moose scat, Faolan thought. He had found hundreds of bones since the floods.

  “As I was scouring the north face of the slopes, I noticed the recent tracks of two wolves. One track was older, and I immediately recognized it as the track of our clan’s esteemed Obea, Lael. I indeed recalled that I had seen her coming back across the river as I entered on the opposite side. The other track had the distinct print of a splay-pawed wolf.”

  Faolan tried to protest that he knew how to run without leaving such a track. But two wolves slammed him to the ground before his first bark.

  “One more outburst and I shall have you escorted out of these proceedings!” Liam shouted.

  “As I continued up the slope,” Heep went on, “I heard the horrible shrieks of a pup being attacked. I prayed, humbly but with great passion, that its suffering would quickly end. I thought, of course, that an owl had taken it. But I now submit this bone.” He dropped the partially carved bone before the chieftain. “I ask you, has an owl ever carved such a bone?”

  There was a murmuring at this last remark.

  At this point, Heep began to sob uncontrollably. “Imagine my shock when upon hearing the murderer leave, I scrambled to the top and saw Faolan, his muzzle drenched in blood!” Heep, making a great effort to control his sobs, turned to the jurors of the raghnaid and, still gulping, continued, “Indeed, I most humbly suggest that my fellow wolves will immediately recognize the carving of this bone as most exquisite—for we all know of the gnaw wolf Faolan’s extraordinary talent.”

  “Only a demon could do that kind of work!”

  “Only a vyrrwolf!”

  “Tear him apart as the law of the gaddernoc
k declares!”

  The chieftain’s growl silenced the wolves. “And why did you not tell us sooner of this terrible crime, Heep?” he asked.

  “I was frightened. He is a strange wolf. I believe he is an agent from the Dim World. The bones he carves are profane, but they have powers.”

  There were murmuring assents from a few elders of the MacDuff clan.

  “That is foolish nonsense!” Faolan growled.

  Liam MacDuncan gave Faolan a sharp bite.

  No one noticed a lone owl entering the gadderheal. Owls have the peculiar ability to hold perfectly still and, with a gesture known as wilfing, shrink themselves to half their normal size. Gwynneth was indistinguishable from the shadows of flames being cast on the walls from the gadderheal fire pit. She listened quietly, with one eye open just a slit.

  “Faolan, are these all the bones of the slain pup?”

  “No, my lord. There are more.”

  “And where might they be?”

  “I buried them.”

  “You buried them? Are you completely cag mag? Where are they?”

  “I told you,” Heep blurted out. “He is from the Dim World!”

  “I buried the bones with those of my second Milk Giver, Thunderheart, on the north-facing slope of the salt lagoons.”

  But the snarling of the wolves and the call for the tearing drowned out his words. “I wanted to honor the malcadh. I had planned to carve the bones!”

  “The murderer carves the bones!” Cathmor shrieked. “You are sick!”

  “Sick! Tear him apart. Let the slow tearing begin!”

  Liam MacDuncan recovered his voice. “The murder of a malcadh by a wolf is indeed the most grievous crime a wolf can commit, and the punishment for such a crime is that the wolf be torn apart by all the packs of all the clans, led by the Obeas. It is to be a slow tearing, as we call it. You will not receive the grace of a quick slash to the life-pumping artery. There is no lochinvyrr for the victim, as this is not a worthy life, nor must the meat be touched, for it is not morrin and will not sustain our lives. The bones are stripped and set out for the ravens, and the bones themselves are burned, never to be carved. Is that understood?”

  “Why should I dignify this question with an answer when I did not commit the crime but rather brought you the bones of that poor malcadh that show beyond any doubt the true murderer?” Faolan said all this in a quiet voice. His tail did not lower one bit. His ears were still shoved forward. “There is a nick in those bones. You will see it if you look carefully. You will see it on the bones I have brought and the bone that Heep put forth as evidence, as well as his story bone. But that nick was not made by any of my teeth.”

  A silence had fallen upon the gadderheal as Faolan spoke. The wolves were not sure what significance the nick held, but Faolan at least had caught their attention. Then came a rustling, and wind seemed to blow through the room. Hoarse whispers started up. “The Sark. The Sark. What’s she doing here?”

  The Sark lurched through the ranks of lords and clan officers. She began pacing back and forth in front of the chieftain.

  “It might pay to attend to the words of the gnaw wolf Faolan.” She swung her head abruptly around and stepped close to Heep, who shrank back and sank into a posture of submission. “Your ‘evidence,’ Heep, is very interesting.”

  It was only because of the mystique, the aura of unnatural power that always seemed to surround her, that the Sark was not instantly removed. The same sergeant who had body-slammed Faolan started to move forward, but Cathmor gave a silent signal and he immediately stepped back.

  “Might you be so good, Heep, as to let me examine your story bone?” Heep was writhing in submissive gestures, which the Sark completely ignored.

  “I offer this bone not only as art but as a testimony of a heinous crime,” Heep said in a somewhat strangled voice.

  “Ah, yes, testimony. You know what the word means, I assume?” The Sark continued to walk back and forth, swishing her raggedy tail. Her ruff looked as if it were being lashed into a froth by its own private typhoon from the Sea of Vastness to the north. Her bad eye had settled into a slow spinning motion while the other held steady on the floor.

  “Yes, I think so,” replied Heep. “I mean a humble wolf such as myself might not have the wits to appreciate the…the…”

  “The subtler nuances, shadows, of the word? Is that what you were about to say?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it exactly.”

  “Well, let me enlighten you. Testimony offers evidence of the truth. The truth, I repeat. The truth itself is not nuanced or shadowed, but evidence can be subtly altered if worked, gnawed, or manipulated.” The Sark paused dramatically and then, as if she had not a care in the world, said casually, “Might I see the bone—the story bone?”

  “Of course!” Heep got up and dropped the bone at the Sark’s front paws. The hush was so thick in the room, one could have heard fur shedding.

  “Ah!” said the Sark, rolling the bone under her paw. “A nice bone, a rib, I believe, of a moose. Generous expanse of working surface, offering a good spread for your narrative”—she paused to correct herself—“oh, pardon me—your ‘evidence.’”

  “Yes, evidence, Madame Sark. Along with the bone of the malcadh, carved by Faolan,” Heep said.

  “Yes, and I see here a very distinctive tooth mark made by a right lateral carnassial.” She paused. “A nick! Indeed, as Faolan pointed out, the same mark as on the bone with the exquisite carving by Faolan. So both the bone you carved for your story bone and the one carved by Faolan have the same nick. Now, how could that be possible? For your story bone is a rib of a moose never touched by Faolan. But all the bones that Faolan brought have this same nicked tooth mark, if one examines them carefully.” The Sark looked about, her whirling eye picking up a bit of speed in its spin as she continued to speak. “‘Carnassial’ is a fancy word for those back teeth of ours that are so efficient in slashing and shearing.”

  Faolan had begun to feel his marrow tingle and his heart race. Where was the Sark going with this?

  “Almost, one could say, your trademark, right, Heep? Interesting!” The Sark paused again. “And I am sure, Heep, that you thought your biggest problem was not your teeth but your tail—or lack thereof.”

  Heep began to tremble.

  The Sark wheeled around and faced the more than three dozen wolves packed into the gadderheal. “I have in my possession a tiny bone from the malcadh slain on the ridge. I would beg the indulgence of the raghnaid to please allow me to submit this bone for their scrutiny and to notice the nicked carnassial. There is a flurry of marks, so I ask that you look carefully.” The Sark waited as the murmurs from the wolves in front of her died down. When she was sure all eyes were on her, she flashed a Sarkish grin. “But aside from all this, I tell you that the gnaw wolf Faolan visited me a short time after he had passed the tummfraw where the malcadh had been abandoned. He came with the scent of a live pup on him. I saw not a trace of the malcadh’s blood. That fact and these bones prove beyond a reasonable doubt that—”

  “What? What?” Heep leaped up.

  “Hold him!” the chieftain ordered.

  A gust swirled through the gadderheal as Gwynneth flew down from the shadows in which she had buried herself. “I was a witness to this crime. I heard the screams as I was flying overhead. There was a cloud cover, but I heard the breathing of a wolf tearing apart the pup on the tummfraw.”

  “But you didn’t see anything! You didn’t know it was me! It could have been any wolf!” Heep shrieked.

  “Not any wolf. I heard the clicks of a fractured tooth,” Gwynneth replied. “I thought nothing of it at the time. My mind was filled with the horror of the murder. But I heard that click.”

  “And so did we!” Dearlea and Mhairie stepped forward.

  “You?” Heep gasped. “Where were you?”

  “At your gnaw circle four days ago,” Mhairie said. “Faolan told us how the clicking of your gnawing teeth annoyed him
during the byrrgis, how you could make this sound even when you weren’t gnawing. He said it was as bad as mosquitoes buzzing during the moons of the flies.”

  “And,” continued Dearlea, “he said you did this on purpose during the byrrgis and that was why he stumbled and then missed his cue in the kill rush.”

  Faolan could not believe what was happening. His eyes filled, and everything before him turned wavy in a scrim of tears. His ruff quivered as his hackles rose and he felt his tail actually begin to wag. The very motion was strange and wonderful at the same time. He had friends, friends who were standing up for him, coming forward to offer the truth!

  “But I would never do anything like this. Never!” Heep protested.

  “Yes, you would,” said the Sark. “There was a tangle of scents at the site of the murder, some more pronounced than others. They were scrambled, and it took me a while to decipher the one of the murderer, for it was mingled with that of the malcadh. You see, that brave little malcadh had fought, and as weak as she was, she drew blood, a tiny scratch but blood nonetheless. The blood of the murderer!” The Sark tipped her head toward Heep and inhaled deeply. “I’ve found the scent.”

  “The scent…scent…the Sark…a scent.” Like a hissing spark from a coal, the words “Sark” and “scent” spun through the cave.

  “And the scent I found was—”